


Horizon

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Brooding, Developing Friendships, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: “May I join you?”Something that was probably a sigh was followed by a movement of his head that may have been a nod, but was more likely a kind of indifferent shrug. Paul sat regardless, the cool sand giving a little beneath his weight.Hardy gains a companion in his brooding. Whether he wants one or not.
Relationships: Paul Coates & Alec Hardy, Paul Coates/Alec Hardy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Russian by [Allenka.666](https://ficbook.net/authors/4030145) available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9746098).

“Good evening, Detective.”

It wasn’t so much _evening_ as _middle of the night_ , but Paul had stopped counting the hours sometime after eleven. That was when he’d decided to swap staring at his bedroom ceiling for the chilly night air of Broadchurch, letting his feet take him where they may. Somehow, it wasn’t much of a surprise to discover the figure he’d seen hunched ahead of him on the sand was the police inspector, but he had dithered for a minute or two over whether to continue on, or turn back and leave the man to his lonely vigil.

In the end, it hadn’t been much of a choice, really. Lost souls and all that.

For a moment, he wondered if Hardy had heard him or if he was lost in his own thoughts. Or perhaps somewhere out on the gently pulsing waves that seemed to have his full attention. Then there was a grunt, the kind of sound that, in all likelihood, constituted a greeting for the grouchy Scot, designed to deflect attempts at socialisation.

But Paul was committed now.

“May I join you?”

Something that was probably a sigh was followed by a movement of his head that may have been a nod, but was more likely a kind of indifferent shrug. Paul sat regardless, the cool sand giving a little beneath his weight.

Facing out to sea, Paul scrutinised his companion from the corner of his eye. He was a long way from the confident, bolshie detective Paul had encountered in the past. His knees drawn up to his chest, shoulders hunched, he looked smaller, softer.

Adrift.

His arms wrapped around his legs, Paul hadn’t immediately noticed he was holding something, twisting it in his long fingers. Now he recognised what it was: a battered packet of cigarettes.

“Should you be smoking those?”

“I don’t see that’s any of your business, _Reverend_.”

There was an undisguised hostility in his tone, the inflection on the title almost sharp enough to make it an insult, but there was a weariness behind it all that eroded its harsh edge, stole its heat.

Paul held up his hands, yielding, placating. “I’m not stopping you.” Just providing the voice of reason, as he had so often in the past.

He half expected Hardy to light one up just to spite him, but instead he gave another grunt, scrunched the packet in his fist, and jammed it deep into his jacket pocket.

“They’re more a test. Sometimes the urge can be a bastard to resist, y’know?”

Paul’s laugh was humourless. “Oh, yes.” He knew only too well what it was to be ruled by addiction, and there was no need to elaborate. He couldn't decide if that made him uncomfortable or not, but when Hardy looked at him – for the first time since Paul had joined him on the beach – his expression was the most open he’d ever seen it. Candid in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

“Aye.” So soft it was almost lost in the sound of the sea skimming back and forth over the sand. “I suppose you do.”

The incongruously warm gaze turned back to the ocean, thoughts returning to whatever distant shore they’d been previously contemplating. But Paul wasn’t quite ready to let that tenuous connection slip away.

“We both know what brings me here,” he said, reminded again that there was little the detective didn’t know about him. “How about you?”

Paul half expected his question to be ignored, half for it to be answered with an invitation to piss off. But Hardy was full of surprises.

“The horizon.” He didn’t move at all, but there was a stark honesty in his voice. “Sometimes it helps put things into perspective.”

Paul could understand that, finding solace in something intangible. Like how he’d once felt inside a church, as if every problem had a solution if one looked hard enough, had a little faith. A feeling that had gradually lost its potency, was almost entirely absent now.

“And other times?”

“Other times it feels so big and distant and impossible. Open.” He shuddered, hugged his legs a little tighter. “Like nothing can ever be contained.”

With the cliffs looming behind them and the open water stretched into the distance before them, waves limned with silver from the low-hanging moon, Paul could understand. The boundless sky had always offered him possibilities, potential, but for Hardy, a man who worked in physical evidence, verifiable facts, it meant endless alternatives, elusive and near impossible to capture.

Something inside Paul was determined not to let Hardy slip off into the infinite.

“I did wonder if you were thinking of going for a skinny-dip.”

Hardy’s head snapped around. “Christ no.”

Paul had to fight a smile at the look of appalled incredulity on his face, gaping at him as if he’d lost his mind. He wasn't very successful, could feel it tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“No, you’re right, it’s still a little too cold. Maybe when it warms up a bit?”

Hardy snorted, shook his head. “No’ likely.”

“Shame.”

Hardy looked at him again, and Paul had no idea what he was reading in his expression; he couldn’t say himself where that comment had come from, what exactly he meant by it. Thankfully, it was dark enough to hide the blush heating his ears, his chuckle maybe enough to imply it was a joke. Probably not. Having encountered Hardy across an interrogation table, Paul knew he was no fool.

Getting to his feet, Paul shoved his hands in his pockets, glad of his jumper as a gust of cold wind coiled around him. “Join me for the walk back?”

Expecting to be brushed off, Paul was once again surprised when Hardy inclined his head in a nod. “Aye, why not?”

On a whim, Paul offered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Hardy accepted, allowing Paul to help him up. His hand was chilled, a sure sign he’d been out there a long time, and he quickly took it back, brushing at the sand clinging to the seat of his trousers to disguise the awkward gesture.

“Bloody hate sand,” he grumbled irritably, scowling down at the offending substance as they made their way back to the footpath, an obvious excuse to avoid the risk of catching Paul’s eye.

“Then you came to the wrong place.” Whether he meant the beach or Broadchurch in general, Paul didn’t elaborate, didn’t truthfully know himself.

“Maybe.” Eyes still trained ahead, Hardy’s response was just as vague, just as telling. “Maybe not.”


End file.
